Abominations
by Keith Koenar
Summary: She has been waiting for the right moment. Power drawn to power, and not in the way you would expect, all sharp eyes and prophecies filled with blood. Ivar relishes in the attention. I must be a gift of the Gods, to find a face as ugly as his without a mirror. Ubbe watches from afar, wondering when this will break the world they know and live in. Ivar/OC, slight Ubbe/OC


"You're mad Ivar. Completely and uterly mad."

A grin full of teeth, eyes full of mischief. He liked it. He liked bathing in the bloodlusting quiver of her upper lip, the excited jitter of her yellow freckled eyes, the flex of an eager hand over the knuckles of a knife.

"Oh Sigrhild. If only you didn't like it so much, no?"

It almost looked as if she was going to spit in his face, but the wet glob landed in the dirt next to him. She had thought better of it, turned her head in the last second. When her hand came up it was to crush Ivar's jaw in its grip.

"I'll bathe in your blood in Valhalla, cripple boy," she spat right in his grinning face.

And Ivar only bared his teeth, gleeful. "Come get a taste of it first, and make me a happy cripple man."

In a kiss more teeth than lips, they could taste fresh blood.

...

She remembers the anticipation in Ubbe's eyes, and the fear burried underneath, when Ivar rose to his feet. Those dragging, dreadful feet.

Sigrhild dragged her fingers across Ubbe's naked chest.

"Hell no wrath like a tall man standing," she murmured absently.

Ubbe wet his lips, his hand twitching on her shoulder. "Nonsense. My brother's still a cripple."

"Oh he is," Sigrhild peeled away and shook her wild curls, elegant fingers kneading at the sore spot on her throat. "You treated him like a cipple his whole life."

"I did not."

Ubbe's eyes are on her as she slides into her dress, wary and careful, on her when she slithers back to him across the bed, a devillish grin playing her lips. It stirrs uneasiness in him, but he will not break face. He is the son of Ragnar Lothbrok, strong and cunning and powerful, and a simple shield maiden should not meet his stare with such defiance.

When her hand strokes the way up his chest, to his shoulder, up the nape of his neck, burries in his hair, goosebumps follow the touch.

" _Liar_ ," it drips from her lips like venom, and deep in her eyes she is more animal than woman. A shapeshifter perhaps, a snake. "He'll remember. Ivar never forgets."

It is power she seeks. That draws her in, feeds her own fire into something greater. Ubbe can see it, when she dances around the flickering flames in a trance, the sharp edge in her shoulders, the flowing of her limbs that follows, and when she throws her head back and grins at the skies, he knows the gods smile upon her.

Sigrhild always gets what she wants. She got Ragnars studying eyes, way back when, Lagertha's special care. She got her raids on the other side of the sea, and her gold and slaves and Ubbe was pretty sure her glorious seat next to Odin himself in Valhalla. He wonders if Loki whispers in her ear, even right now.

She got his heart. He wonders how long it'll take her to crush it.

When she leaves and takes all warmth with her, he thinks to know.

A snake always looks for the next-best den.

...

"What are you, but a pretty cripple on a horse."

No one's ever called him pretty before. He should rip her throat out for it. Instead he grabs her by the waist, crushes her, let's her rub against him for everyone to see. From his seat, when he tilts his head upwards, he can drink the tug on the edge of her full lips, the excitement drawn all over her face.

The table around them has only turned a notch quieter, and everyone can pretend all they want, but they are watching.

Her hand in his hair, tugging. Crazy twitching at the edge of his lips, amused by her daring move. The world around them pulses, flashbacks of battle, the cries of dying men, blood on the tip of his. He thinks he's shouting, but he must be laughing. A pretty cripple on a horse. He should rip her throat out.

A voice whispers in his ear. Quiet, persistent. It must be a sign of the gods. Ivar the boneless gives in to the murmur, claims Sigrhild at the highest table of the great hall, in front of the people and the gods.

Ubbe's terrified eyes on them only add to the thrill.

A snake and a wolf, intertwining in a deadly embrace.

...

"You think I do not know what you are doing?" Ubbe spits. He isn't stupid. "I am not stupid," he says out loud.

As if he had to reassure himself.

Without faltering in her steps, Sigrhild strides through the market place, and Ubbe has no choice but to follow her hot on her heels. She barely gives him a glance.

"I do not know what you're talking about."

In a fit of rage Ubbe pushes her into an alley, away from prying eyes, and almost regrets it as her murderous eyes find his. He expects the punch, and supposed he deserves it. All he can do is spit a glob of spit and fresh blood on the dirty ground before turning back to her, glaring.

"You and Ivar," he simply hisses.

It is jealousy, and hurt that shapes his words. Sigrhild knows. She has witnessed first hand what it meant for brothers to push back and forth for power. Sure, Björn was still hovering in the background, but it was clear he did not desire the throne.

"I do not engage in power play. I am simply doing the God's bidding."

She really does believe it. She believes the God's wanted her by Ivar's side, for whatever reason, and they probably did. Ubbe is playing a loosing game.

"Do you really think he'll make you queen?" He draws closer, until they are inches apart. "Ivar is cruel and incapable of love, and the second you're done serving him he'll cast you aside. You're nothing to him."

"I had a dream," she breathes, an unflappable whisper hitting hot right on his chin, cutting through his core. "A great war is coming, and a great warrior must be made to paint the world red. My servitude is an honor."

A hand is crushing his chin forcefuly then and Ubbe freezes. A primal urge in him sends his heart pumping, fear and excitment, and the bright brown eyes inspecting find it. Sigrhild is judging him, judging his worth.

She smiles and says, "One day I'll be everything you'll ever know."

No doubt. He will remember it the day she reshapes the world as he knows it.

...

She's not the first by his side, but impossible not to notice her entrance from the first story of a house giving to the small clearance, sword dropping into a soldier. Ivar throws back his head and shouts, and she answers with a war cry of her own, thumping her shield. The next enemy hesitates only a second too long.

It'll be the last time he ever hesitates.

She's next to him then, when his eyes are entranced with the man that does not fight like his own. He fights with purpose, and reckless precision. The cross around his neck whirls with his swings, and one viking goes down, a second one, a third. Ivar licks his coppery lips.

"I want him," he growls.

Sigrhild's lips pull back, a grotesque grin underneath a mask of blood and gore. She's just as enthralled with the man. And when the Christian dares raising his sword on them, defying, Sigrhild only gives a delighted laugh.

"Then we shall have him."

Her shoulders pull forward, cutting through the fighting masses with every rattling step, more beast than man. Ivar never corrects her.

 _Ivar, Ivar the boneless_ , it echoes in her head as Sigrhild raises her sword.

...

"At least tell me why."

"You know why."

Ubbe won't admit it out loud. He wants to hear her say it, some kind of sick confirmation of his greatest fears, yearning for pain that would make it easier to forget. Sometimes he thinks to see a glimpse of the Sigrhild he once loved, the one with the silk tongue and supple lashes, but he suspects that too had been nothing more than an illusion.

He had seen what he had wanted to see, in a hard woman that had a soft spot for him. Even now there seems to be a reminiscence of that, in her cool eyes that flicker back and forth between his hand on her elbow and his stricken face.

Sigrhild is torn in her affections, though there is no doubt where her ultimate loyalty lies.

"Don't pretend not to see, the fire in his eyes."

Ubbe lowers his voice, his grip tightening. "It is nothing but destruction."

"From the ashes we will rise."

"Ivar is nothing but a mad king. Mad kings do not rise, they plunge the world into chaos, good kings are the one's that pull their people out of misery."

Sigrhild smirks. "Then maybe you haven't fulfilled your destiny yet."

And just like that, the door opens ajar. Deep in his core, Ubbe can feel himself falling, and strangely he does not care. All he can see is Sigrhild's intense eyes, swallowing him whole to the deaf sounds of beating drums. A feast awaits at the tables of the great hall, for those who bathe in glory.

Ubbe is a thirsty man.

The spell breaks when a few of their countrymen walk past, pushing the doors of the conquered church open, the sounds of the festivities inside spilling onto the street. With an unsettling grin, Sigrhild steps away.

"Come on, let's join the feast."

It's almost as if she is asking him to sell his soul. Ubbe takes a step towards the open doors.

...

The church fills with Ivar's boasts, praise of the battle and the glory they have reaped in front of the Gods, and all Ubbe has eyes for is Sigrhild, whose intense face is still absent.

"I think we should stay, no?"

Sigrhild's eyes snap up. Ubbe knows Ivar has just addressed him, but he does not care. He feels his brothers jealousy burning through him and does not fucking care. Sigrhild sees him, truly, and even from across the hall it is as if she was right there, whispering in his ear, hushed promises of immortality in the great hall, adoration by his people.

There is a faint, foolish hope for reunion there too. It comes at a price. Hvitserk is unaware he is looking up to a lost man for guidance.

"I agree," Ubbe declares.

The triumph in Ivar's proud shoulders and Hvitserk's unbelieving eyes trigger dread in the cavity of Ubbe's chest. He gulps it down with a drink of his ale and sinks further into his seat.


End file.
